scraping
lead against the
    paper, rough
    sounds
  of natural
        peace
                &
        moving along
                    together
  but feel
        heartily
                amongst
    seaside drapes
            and the
  immaculate
            carpet of
              night.

He needs no introductions
the man behind the mask
in the indifference of the
glass. Enraptured &
alone, he does indeed
wait for the miracle
of the night. Impetuous,
glaring, still.

When I meditate
listening to the
words that pop up
and glimmer in the
front of my mind
everything my eyelids
behold begins to
quiver & I can look
straight through
& see nothing

the sky is gray
over naked gray trees
all seems gray
sidewalk & building
& all is a dream
& a pretty little dream
& the mind is the dreamer
sleeping in the gray
& i am glad for it
my dream is gray
the rainy day is gray
the rain in spain is gray
the eyes of pretty ladies
are gray just look
at all of this gray
sea of dreaming
just look at the dream
it is all gray
it is all
tathagata

when i die
i want to be
buried
not burned
certainly not
sunk i want to
be in the nice
cool ground
with the worms
at least six feet
beneath our
own six feet

I have a shaggy mess
of brown hair that
stays tangled & rankled
to fall over my glasses
like a flag. Smoke from my
cigarette trails behind
me when I walk,
in the direction of the
breeze. I have short legs
and long fingernails that
break often. I wear an old
sandalwood Buddhist
mala rosary on my thin
and bony right wrist.
I've never made a necklace
of flowers--

maybe I'll start
making those tomorrow.

It doesn't take long for me
        to write a poem like it
        used to.
No, I see a stream & think
        not of rhyme or of
        rhythm--words spew
        out like blood
        and venom.
There's no secret to it, no
        golden key, it just
        comes.
It bubbles out of me.
I am a word-faucet.